


Colonel Sanders' Dating Service

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Fast Food, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ghosting isn't a good way to get the guy you like just sayin, M/M, Pining, emotional idiocy, this fic is not sponsored by kfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: Or, how some cake and a KFC bargain bucket brings two lonely old fools together.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 14
Kudos: 234





	Colonel Sanders' Dating Service

**Author's Note:**

> I've been poking at this on and off for two years and still didn't manage to get it out by the 25th.  
> oh well! It's done, and I can finally banish it from my wips folder
> 
> enjoy!

Still nothing.

The chat log remains unchanged, no new messages since the last time he checked an hour ago. He should not have expected anything different, and yet, he had hoped...

Hanzo sighs and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

With only a few more days to go until Christmas the number of people out and about has easily tripled since his last trip into town, and the crowds carry a harried air, over-conscious of the timer ticking down to the holiday deadline. For Hanzo it's meant taking care of the simplest tasks has taken three times as long as usual. Even Tracer's time-bending abilities can't change that.

Completely unbowed by the festive stress, she and several other Overwatch agents had arranged a shopping trip into town – an excuse to spend some down-time bonding before they all go their separate ways for the holidays. Hanzo had gone along because it was simpler just to accept the invitation than to find an excuse to decline, particularly when he'd been vocal about feeling cooped up. He wouldn't want to refuse and risk causing offence.

And at first he had been glad he'd come; recent events had left him feeling irritable and restless, and it was soothing to be out in the cool fresh air, blanketed by the anonymous din of other people. Not to mention the distraction from his thoughts was welcome.

It's a pity he's an hour past starting to regret it.

The ease at which the rest of the group have become friends still astonishes him. Except for Lena and Reinhardt all the people out today had been complete strangers not so long ago, but you would not think it to look at them now. Now, they're firm friends, close in the manner of people who have spent years fighting at each other's sides. Whereas Hanzo could spend years around another person and still only feel on their periphery. He had not even been close with the other children in the Shimadagumi – cousins, the offspring of lieutenants, and the like – whom he had grown up alongside.

And when he does succeed in making a friend, he does not seem able to keep them. It is evident there is little in his character worth sticking around for.

He clicks his tongue and sighs, mentally chiding himself. This is the true problem – this pathetic, nauseating self-pity. It fixes nothing.

No matter how unjustified it is still difficult to hide the drop of his mood.

He keeps quiet, lets the jubilant cheer of his companions blind them from thinking to watch him too closely. Hanzo is _trying_ , after all. He is making a determined, valiant effort towards real, meaningful change, and he can't afford to sow discomfort or discontent amongst his colleagues when their acceptance of him was still so fragile and new. No; best to keep his sour turns of mind to himself.

He stops to rest for a moment, to massage away an ache in the muscle above his knee brace and catch his breath. The rest of the group carries on ahead of him, not noticing that he is no longer with them. Lucio is trying to teach Zarya and Mei a Brazilian pop song, Lena is gossiping with Baptiste, and Hana is laughing at one of Reinhardt's exuberant tales, the crowd parting around the giant man as he gestures with arms laden with bags of presents for Torbjorn's many grandchildren.

The cold sinks and hardens in Hanzo's chest.

It is not that he is unwelcome. He knows these people well enough by now to recognise that as fact – it has been many weeks since he ceased being an intruder in their eyes, attempting to usurp a would-be heroic role to which he was entirely unsuited. But there is a difference between _being welcome_ and _belonging_.

...He had been beginning to, tentatively, cautiously, feel that perhaps he did belong somewhere – or, rather, with some _one –_ but...

Ah, well. It seems he was mistaken. And what had he ever gained from dwelling on his mistakes?

This is when the smell hooks its claws into him. 

Frying oil, meats, herbs and spices. A heady, unmistakable scent that's somehow off-putting and yet mouthwatering at same time, that seems the same no matter where in the world you find yourself. He turns and looks around the crowded boulevard, searching for its source. And there, a couple shops down, is the golden light and red and white colour scheme of a well known fast food restaurant chain.

Hanzo used to have to retrieve his wayward brother at such establishments, once a year every year on the same day, like clockwork, since Genji turned fourteen. The first time Hanzo had set foot in one actually intending to be a patron was long, long after, in some grimy, iced-over burrough in New York City. Hanzo had been hunted, haunted, and half mad from grief; he was running on a week without real sleep and exhausted beyond measure, soaked through from the rain, with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the rapidly draining untraceable credit chip in his pocket. 

Cheap, hot food had been a comfort. 

This year, he has three warm meals a day. He has a permanent place to sleep, a safe, secure room of his own, with a lock and a comfortable bed. He has company, comrades of a sort, people he can trust not to stab him in the back even if he does not feel he belongs. He has a cause, even if it is one he finds hard, and hypocritical, to truly believe in. He has his health. He has his life. 

As does his brother.

Many reasons to be grateful, in this time of thanks and good will. So, really, he has no cause to complain about anything. 

Hanzo himself has no plans for the festive season. He is staying in Gibraltar because Genji is – like so many aspects of the past few months, his actions and decisions have been dictated almost entirely by his brother. 

Genji would no doubt balk if he knew. He would come over with that sincerity Hanzo still finds so foreign on him, the concern that Hanzo knows is well-meant but grates all the more more for it. He would tell Hanzo yet again to live for himself, whatever that meant. And yet, how disappointed would Genji be if, by living for himself, Hanzo made a decision Genji did not agree with? So, really, what choice is there? 

Better that Genji make those choices for the both of them.

It is not that Hanzo minds. He has nowhere else to go; Genji is the only family he has left. He wouldn't choose to go elsewhere even were the option open to him. 

Either way, the two of them have no concrete plans to celebrate the season. They had taken part in all the festivities Winston had arranged for those Overwatch agents still in Gibraltar – Tracer was still bubbling about bringing her girlfriend over last week for their 'proper Chrimbo party', which seemed to Hanzo's hazy recollection to primarily entail an absurd quantity of alcohol – but neither the Christian celebration nor its capitalist counterpart had ever been celebrated in the Shimada household when they were boys. The lack of acknowledgement, it seems, will continue now they are adults and somewhat reconciled. 

Hanzo catches his reflection in the gold-lit window. The contrast cuts his face into sharp, downturned lines, dour and frowning, tired bags drooping heavy shadows under his father's eyes. His sigh fogs the window and obscures the sight; he turns away.

Of course, there are certain traditions in Japan at Christmas time – but those were always Genji's pursuits, not his.

A sudden split-second pressure in the air is the only warning before Tracer pops into existence next to him. It says a lot about the kind of life Hanzo now lives, that he has grown accustomed enough to this that he no longer flinches. 

“There you are, love. Thought we'd lost you!” Lena pipes. She rocks back on her heels to look up at the sign glowing above their heads, and grins. “Feeling peckish, are we?” 

Hanzo hums blandly. “Shopping with Reinhardt is a uniquely tiring experience, it seems."

Lena laughs. “Yeah, no kidding! I'm famished. Come on then, the quicker we get back, the sooner you can feed the tummy monster. Speaking of the big guy, him and Lucio have challenged each other to a cook-off, so you know it's gonna be a feast!”

* * *

In the lead up to Christmas day the Watchpoint has been haemorrhaging agents like a shot in the carotid artery. 

By the time Hanzo wakes on the morning of Christmas Eve the Watchpoint is eerily still. Girbraltar was far from the largest of Overwatch's strongholds in its heyday but it was still intended for many more people than inhabit it now, so it has always been easy to find a quiet spot out of the way of everyone else – a fact Hanzo welcomed when he first arrived back in late spring, when the shift from loner assassin to tenuous do-gooder was proving challenging to deal with. Now he has grown used to the people, and their absence is oddly disconcerting.

A light rain patters on the walls and rooves, echoing through the empty halls. The sussurent rhythm of it is sophoriphic, otherwordly; Hanzo has the strange feeling as he walks that somewhere along the way he has passed through into a realm of spirits.

Or perhaps it is just the absence of one person in particular. 

McCree is still here in the Watchpoint. Somewhere. He thinks. Hanzo hasn't seen him for several days, over a week in fact, not since the night of that regrettable party. Wherever the cowboy has chosen to hide himself it isn't any of his usual haunts. None of Hanzo's, either. Much as Hanzo might wish to there is no point in searching him out. If McCree has disappeared for a reason he won't be found until he wants to be – and there must be a reason. 

Hanzo fears he knows what that reason is.

He spends his day playing card games in the unusually empty rec room with his brother and Zenyatta.

Genji groans and slumps back in his chair, tossing his disappointing hand on to the table. The winning streak he'd started out on was now three rounds behind him, and he was not happy about it. 

Zenyatta collects the cards and taps them neatly into a tidy block. “You should have folded when you had the chance,” he says, smug. Genji groans louder. 

The whole table chuckles at his faux misery. Hanzo passes his own cards back to Zenyatta to shuffle when he is distracted by a vibration against his thigh. Despite all his own stern admonishments to the contrary his heart jumps with a rush of nervous adrenaline – but when he thumbs open his phone the notification is only a selfie of Hana and Daehyun at an esports charity event in Seoul. 

It's embarrassing, how swiftly and completely Hanzo's mood sinks.

Because he is a hopeless fool, he opens up the text conversation with McCree yet again. And again, nothing about it has changed. The words are still the same as the last time he checked.

22:29

ur a real peach, shimada 

22:33

Another of your southernisms I assume? What does it mean, to be 'a real peach'? 

22:34

Wouldn't you like to know 👀 😉 

22:35

Yes, I would, that is in fact why I asked.

22:37

surely you can't expect a fella to reveal all his secrets, can you darlin? 

22:37

Gotta keep that air of mystery~

22:37

Ha! You are ridiculous 

22:38

That's what they all say, haha 😎🤠

15th Dec 2077

10:09

I wanted to thank you for assisting me back to my rooms last night. At least I am assuming that was you? Genji would not have left painkillers for me. 

10:10

I was going to do so in person but I cannot find you, so here will have to do, I suppose. 

10:17

McCree? 

12:35

You missed our scheduled competition. This means I win by default. 💪💪✌️ 

13:06

You are being very quiet today. 

13:07

Are you feeling unwell? I have never known you to be laid low by a hangover before. 

15:54

I passed by your room earlier but you were not there. Has Winston sent you on a mission? 

15:58

Though I suppose if you are on mission you would not be able to reply... 

16:00

apologies, I will leave you be.

17th Dec 2077

07:41

You are not on mission. 

07:59

have I upset you in some way? 

18th Dec 2077

03:33

I regret I do not remember the end of the party the other night. I apologise if I said anything strange, or acted in any way untoward. I hope I did not.

09:12

Will you not answer? 

09:12

McCree? 

20th Dec 2077

21:45

Jesse?

As the days passed Hanzo had gone through worry, to indignance, to anger, and now he had arrived at a strange sort of frustrated resignation, coloured heavily with melancholy.

Surely, if McCree could tolerate him enough to see past what he did to Genji, there is nothing Hanzo could do that would justify being so thoroughly ignored. Did he do something so terrible McCree cannot stand to exchange words with him any more? 

What secrets he may have let slip in his drunken state... surely they could not have disgusted McCree so? ...It seems far fetched, but not beyond all possibility. And what other possible explanation could there be? 

The least McCree could do is to allow him an answer, even if it's to tell him to fuck off. 

Yet at the same time Hanzo feels vaguely guilty for acting, even if only in his own head, as though McCree's limited time and attention should in any way revolve around him. Perhaps McCree did in fact have plans for the season, and simply did not see any reason for Hanzo to know. It isn't like Hanzo is entitled to anything from him. 

“Everything okay, brother?” 

“Hm?” Hanzo glances up to Genji's raised eyebrow. “Oh, yes, I was simply thinking,” he says, a half-admittance. “This time of year, you understand.”

“Uh-huh.” Genji's other sparse, scarred brow lifts to join its twin. “So the reason you have been glued to your phone all afternoon has nothing to do with McCree, then? I noticed recently the two of you have not seemed so attached at the hip.” 

Hanzo says nothing. 

“Did he do something?” Genji asks, leaning over the table like he's playing bad cop in an interrogation. “Do I need to kick his ass? Because I will-” 

“Genji,” Zenyatta warns gently, though he sounds amused.

Hanzo is warmed by the fact that his brother's first instinct is to jump to Hanzo's defence over McCree's, even though McCree is his longtime friend – but he does wish his brother would not meddle. “Everything is fine, Genji,” he says shortly. “There will be no kicking of asses.” 

Genji tuts like a disappointed grandma. “Fine, fine,” he drawls, “if you insist.” He gathers up the cards and, to Hanzo's relief, changes the subject. “I'd say let's play another round, but Zen and I really need to leave soon if we want to get to the shelter on time. You sure you don't wanna come with us, Hanzo? I know they're not expecting you, but...”

“Another person willing to help is always appreciated,” Zenyatta adds.

“Exactly. There's bound to be something they can find for you to do.” 

The two of them had decided to spend their December 24th and 25th volunteering at the local homeless shelter, helping prepare and serve warm food. It comes as a surprise to himself, but Hanzo is actually tempted. Once he established a reputation as a mercenary he had a ready source of income, and was able to eat regular, proper meals – which was lucky, since he needed the strength and muscle mass to be able to keep using his bow. But there had been an awful stretch of time after he'd fled Hanamura when he'd feared he would starve to death before the clan's assassins ever caught up with him. He had learned the hard way the true meaning of hunger. To stave that feeling off for other people, even if just for one night... 

But the idea of being in close quarters around so many strangers grates on his already frayed nerves. “Next year, perhaps,” he says. “I think I will go to bed early tonight.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind you know where to find us.” Genji pats his shoulder. “See you later, brother. Don't spend too long moping around about cowboys!”

Hanzo slaps him upside the head. 

“Ow!”

* * *

The rain starts coming down heavier after the two of them leave.

Hanzo winds down with some light target practice. By the time he returns to his room there's a tell-tale rhythmic jingle echoing down the hall from the direction of his door. It isn't likely to be sleigh bells, which only leaves... 

A cowboy, pacing up and down outside his door. 

McCree has evidently been outside in the squalling weather; he is wet and bedraggled, his clothing soaked through. Drops of water sparkle in his thick beard. Whatever he wants it must be urgent – he must have come straight to Hanzo's door without taking any time to dry himself off.

Hanzo leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

McCree turns on his heel, paces back towards him, then raises his head. He stops short. His eyes widen.

“Oh. Hey.” 

Hanzo sniffs. “Greetings.” 

McCree sweeps off his hat and holds it with both hands, clutched to his chest. The ends of his hair are as soaked through as his serape, curling as it starts to dry. “I'm uh, I'm glad I caught you. I thought you mighta gone out with your brother.” 

“As you can see, I did not.” 

“Yeah, no. Obviously not.” McCree's chuckle is strained. “Um. So, I was just wonderin' if you're free ..?” He palms the nape of his neck, visibly awkward when Hanzo remains silent. “Or, I mean, if you already got plans tonight or somethin' you don't need to pay me no mind-” 

“Hm.” Hanzo tilts his head and pretends to consider. “Neither my time nor my attention has been in great demand, as of late,” he says dryly. 

“...Right.” McCree lefts out a sigh and ducks his head. The thick, auburn-touched spill of his hair flops dripping into his face. He pushes it back with one hand and looks Hanzo in the eye. His own are soft with apology. Or guilt. “Listen, I know I've been – M.I.A. an' all, recently...” 

He trails off. 

To have him disappear so suddenly without warning was incredibly irritating – no, more than that, it was _upsetting_ , on a level Hanzo doesn't want to examine too closely. If he is already embroiled to such a degree that a rejection, no matter how imagined or implied, literally hurts him to this degree – it does not bode well for the future state of his heart.

It's almost enough to make him wish he'd never allowed the other man to befriend him. At least before, while he knew he was alone, he had not noticed his own loneliness.

As McCree watches him his brow furrows – a brief flicker, one Hanzo would not have caught were he not watching McCree closely in return. 

McCree's jaw shifts, then all at once his spine and shoulders straighten and he comes alight with determination.

“Hanzo, I'm sorry,” he says, his rolling voice low and rich with sincerity. “I know I've been ghostin' you, and that really weren't fair o' me. Not fair at all. It's a damn shitty way to treat a friend, and frankly I feel like a damn heel. I just... hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.” 

He offers Hanzo a tentative smile. “I was hopin' to make it up to you, if you're willing?” 

Those deep, soulful brown eyes of his are a deadly weapon, in more ways than one. Hanzo is weak. 

“I might be,” he finds himself saying. “Depending on the offering.” He is instantly worried he sounded too unintentionally flirtatious – he can't afford to cross that line again – but McCree just grins, wide and speaking of relief.

“Great! That's – uh, yeah, that's great.” He plops his hat back atop his wet hair and clears his throat. “I got some food for us back in my room if you wanna..?” 

Hanzo inclines his head and sets back off up the corridor. When no sound of spurs follows he glances over his shoulder. 

“Well?”

McCree jolts slightly as though startled from something. “Yeah! Yeah, comin'.”

* * *

“This was kinda a spur-of-the-minute thing, to tell the truth, so I'm afraid it ain't anythin' special,” McCree says apologetically, fretting as he taps in his door code. A wince pulls at his lips. “I did put it all on a heat tray so I hope it ain't gone cold...”

Whatever Hanzo had been anticipating before McCree opened the door, it flees when he sees the paper bags and logoed cardboard packages. McCree had indeed set up a heat tray propping it up on an empty ammunition crate, and he had tossed his pillows on to the floor for them to sit on. 

“I would've got you somethin' more fancy, but it was pretty much impossible given the date and all. Genji suggested this would be good, though?"

Wait, he asked Genji for advice? So Genji already knew? ...Of course he did, why is Hanzo surprised? 

McCree pauses, licking his lips when Hanzo stays silent, staring at the tray. “He wasn't messin' with me was he?” 

“What? No! No, this is – fine.” 

“You sure about that? 'Cause I'm the one tryin' to apologise; you really don't have to tiptoe around my feelings, here-” 

“I said it is fine, McCree.” Hanzo pats McCree's arm, then grimaces and wipes his damp palm on his top. “You should go and dry off, though. You'll catch a cold.” 

“Yeah, I'll do that. You, er. You make yourself comfy, darlin'. Tuck in if you want, I'll be two ticks.” McCree disappears into the bathroom with a change of dry clothes.

Hanzo takes a moment to breathe. His heart is fluttering, his thoughts racing. This is nothing like going out for a romantic meal, but – it is the closest thing he has ever experienced to a dinner date on Christmas Eve, with the person he likes.

A takeout bucket of fried battered chicken drumsticks, and some potato fries. Such an absurd thing to become fixated on. McCree cannot mean it in that way. Can he? He is not Japanese; there is little chance he could know. Unless Genji insinuated something? 

Half expecting this to be an illusion that will disappear the moment he tries to touch, Hanzo slowly kneels on one of the pillows, and helps himself to a fry. It's warm, soft and salty in his mouth. Real, then. 

Jesse comes back out in a soft plaid shirt and sweatpants, a towel slung around his neck. Soft and rumpled. Longing pulls at Hanzo's lungs.

He drops down on the other side of the crate facing Hanzo, his long legs sprawled out to one side. Hanzo passes him the bucket of chicken drumsticks.

They dig in to their meal in a quiet that is not tense, yet is not as relaxed as they normally are together, either. The food has suffered too, from transport and being left sitting around, but Hanzo does not care about either of these things. He is merely glad to be sharing a meal again with McCree. This meal that McCree had bought thinking of him, that he'd brought all the way back to the Watchpoint in the rain just to share with him. As an apology, yes, but the effort is telling. Evidently, whatever Hanzo did, he has not lost his friend after all.

And, privately, he is also glad to be sharing in a fantasy that has lingered from his teenage days, when he watched his brother with hidden envy. Indulging in a fantasy he never would have dared to imagine, partaking in this ritual with Jesse.

Perhaps it is the relief, but Hanzo has more appetite than he thought. He gets through half his fries and two more drumsticks before he notices McCree has stopped and is watching him. 

“...What?” 

“You really do like this, huh?” McCree says, in a tone Hanzo can't decipher.

“I do not see the problem.” 

“Naw, no problem,” McCree says hastily. “I don't mean nothin' by it. It's only, you know, you're a man of discerning tastes. Wouldn't've thought this kinda thing was your idea of a good meal.”

Hanzo scoffs. “Nonsense. Sometimes you want haute cuisine at a Michelin star restaurant, and sometimes, you want something like this.” He sticks another drumstick in his mouth and rips the meat off with his teeth. “On a miserable day like today, this is perfect.”

McCree smiles wide. “Perfect, huh? That's some high praise.”

Hanzo shrugs. “There have been times...” he starts, then glances away. It is hard to admit to such things looking McCree in the eye. “I have not always had the luxury of being certain when or where my next meal would come. One soon learns to find satisfaction where one can.” 

“Ah.” Jesse nods solemnly. “Yeah, I know what that's like. A man can relate.”

Between them they soon polish off the food. Hanzo sucks the grease off his fingers.

Part of him is reluctant to disturb this newly regained accord, but the questions are pushing at him, hungry and demanding as the dragons.

He should have made better choices at that stupid party. 

That night Hanzo's spirit of competition – the part of him he shared most with Genji, the part with the least claim to any common sense – had encouraged him to try to match Reinhardt drink for drink. The last thing he remembered from the the party was around the time they'd started drinking directly from the spiked punch bowl.

The next day he woke blessed with a splitting headache, but medication and water had been left out for him on his bedside table. He was dressed in pyjamas he certainly would not have bothered to put on himself while drunk. In a bed that smelled faintly like McCree's serape. 

And then McCree had not spoken to him all week since. 

Hanzo remembers nothing of what happened, what he might have done or said. But he knows, he _knows_ it's something that crossed a line. 

“McCree, I must ask...” 

Jesse winces preemptively, but Hanzo does not let either of their embarrassment or discomfort stall him. He needs these answers. He deserves them. He wants to put this difficulty behind them so he does not have to think of it again. 

“Why did you suddenly turn so silent? I believe I am entitled to know.”

He knows before McCree opens his mouth he will try and evade. It is obvious; the false ease that comes over him as glaring as a neon sign. “I got in a bad headspace, is all,” McCree says, soothing. Hanzo does not wish to be soothed. “I shouldn't've ignored you. I know that was a total dick move. But if it makes you feel better, I was ignorin' everyone.”

Hanzo clenches his jaw. “Everyone except Genji?” 

McCree stills. He searches for a verbal escape route for a couple more seconds before shutting his eyes, and sighing. 

“Tell me the truth,” Hanzo urges. “You would not be so reluctant to tell me if I had not done something to wrong you. I cannot make amends if I do not know what that wrong is.” 

Jesse flushes and looks away, scratches behind his ear. “If I'd known you were worryin' yourself about it, I'd've...” He shakes his head. “You didn't do anything bad, Hanzo. You... It was real sweet, to tell you the truth.” 

He twists his mouth, a regretful tilt to his brow. “And then I went and was an asshole about it and freaked myself the fuck out.” 

“If you were 'freaked out', as you say, there must have been reason for it,” Hanzo protests. “I must have done something to make you uncomfortable-” 

“Nothin' freaked me out save my own screwed up issues. I mean it. Hand on heart.” 

He really does place his hand over his heart. Hanzo waits, gripping the thin reins of his patience as McCree visibly struggles for the right words.

“This time o' year, it just... It don't hold many pleasant associations for me, let's put it that way. I won't bore you with the details, but, suffice to say a lot of major shit in my life has fallen to one side or the other of Christmas, if not right on top of it. Not everything terrible, obviously, but enough for the date to feel like bad juju. So...” He palms the back of his neck and hisses out a sharp sigh. “So now I got this – this _thing_. I have a hard time dealing with anythin' that happens around the holidays. Any sort of upheaval or change – even the smallest, dumbest shit, can set me off. Even if it's good. That make sense?”

Hanzo hums quietly. He wonders what 'small, dumb shit' he did to rattle his friend, but if Jesse is so reluctant to speak Hanzo does not wish to upset him further by forcing the point.

“Christmas was not a celebration that was entertained in our household,” he says. Jesse stills, fixing him with the full force of his unyielding attention. “Not even an acknowledgement of it. It was the New Year that was important, that recieved all the pomp and circumstance. As an old local family, us Shimadas often took part in the ceremonies at the local temples, or led in the street parades. It was viewed as a demonstration of the family's 'good intentions' to the local public. As if it were not protection money and the threat of comeuppance that kept the streets of Hanamura safe year round. 

“When Genji and I were young we found it great fun, but as the years passed...”

As with most aspects of their childhood the new year had become marred with hindsight – by a father who kept having to leave, called away by dark-suited underlings, stolen by quiet whispers just out of earshot of his young boys. _Just some business to attend to_ , he'd say, with a short smile and a promise of a quick return that was never fulfilled. And a mother who was just as absent even though she remained, who barely smiled at her sons at all.

It may not be the same as Jesse's precise issue, perhaps, but the sentiment, the real heart of the matter, is certainly familiar. “I know what it means to have mixed feelings about an event that is supposed to be joyous. The burden of family and legacy.” He grimaces. “And the pressure that one feels one ought to be enjoying themselves-”

"Makes things a hundred times worse, don't it?” Jesse says. 

“It definitely does not make things _better_.” Hanzo huffs a wry laugh. “So, yes,” he concludes. “As you said, a man can indeed relate.”

Jesse drops his hand and looks at him, an odd, unconscious half-smile quirking his lop-sided mouth. 

“You really do, don't you.” 

Hanzo raises a brow. Was that in doubt? Was this unexpected understanding not how their bond was forged? Hanzo would not have developed such a humbling depth of affection for any reason more shallow.

Jesse fiddles with his shirt cuff. "Some of the other folks here, they uh... They're great, don't get me wrong, I love 'em to pieces, but – they don't always _get it,_ you know? People like Lena, Reinhardt and Fareeha – they're heroes. Give 'em a shining trophy from the UN, take pictures for the press, all that bull, and it fits them. And I ain't meaning to belittle them – they've been through some real tough shit, all of 'em – but they've always been on the side of right. Fighting the good fight. Not like yours truly. 

“Genji gets it, most of the time.” He looks at Hanzo. “You get it.” 

A shaking sigh. “Which is why I was so scared I'd ruined all this. It's a rare thing, to find someone who clicks with you like that, easy as breathin'. I didn't want to lose it. To lose you.” 

Hanzo is certain his heart stops beating. 

Before he knows how to react Jesse is leaning back to reach under his bed. His shirt rides up, exposing a soft line of brown skin and thick, dark hair. “Anyhow, I got us dessert too,” he says, producing another cardboard box, this one with a clear cellophane window in the top which reveals it to be a creamy sponge cake.

It is lucky for Hanzo's sanity that he is so easily distracted by sweets.

“Ta-da! Japanese Christmas cake! Near as I could find, anyway, so in other words totally inauthentic.” Jesse produces a box of ripe red strawberries, too. “Had no hope of finding the real deal on short notice, so I improvised.”

“You did not have to go to so much trouble,” Hanzo says, but Jesse is already shaking his head before he can finish the sentence. 

“Pretty sure I did, actually, so don't even start with that,” Jesse says. “Besides, maybe I wanted to spoil you a bit. So sue me.” Cheeks flushed pink, he twists and reaches back under the bed again. “There's somethin' else, too, so if you need to make a fuss you can wait 'til I'm done givin' you everything.”

He sits up again clutching a brown paper bag. “I've actually been holding on to this one for a while. Was gonna give it to you tomorrow, but,” he shrugs. “Guess now's as good a time as any.” He rustles in the bag and brings out an elegant glass bottle, holding it up to the light for Hanzo's inspection.

Hanzo takes it reverently from Jesse's hands.

A bottle of premium Honjozo sake. Difficult to find outside of Japan; McCree must have had it imported.

He brushes his thumb over the label. “An excellent choice. Very well. Now I can definitely forgive you.”

Jesse's chuckle deepens the exquisite laughter lines around his eyes. “Thought you'd like it. Happy holidays, darlin'.”

Hanzo takes him in: those eyes, that smile, the deceptive softness that disguises a shrewd, dangerous mind, and yet is no less genuine for it. McCree's sincerity, the effort he has gone to to apologise, his apparent emotional turmoil, the flush in his ears and cheeks – individually they do not mean much, but all these factors combined...

Hanzo tries not to succumb to treacherous hope.

Cradling the bottle he gets to his feet. “This will taste best warmed, I think,” he says when Jesse looks at him, questioning. “Come, I will show you how.” He points at the cake. “And bring that with you.”

Jesse trails along half a pace behind as they head for the kitchen, just close enough for Hanzo to feel the heat of him. Outside the rain is coming down in torrents, but now the corridors feel cosy, protected from the elements.

As Hanzo gently heats the bottle of sake in a pan of water on the stove, Jesse cuts the strawberries into halves and arranges them on the top of the cake, then portions them each a slice. Hanzo doesn't want to traipse back to his room for his proper sake set, so instead they borrow Ana's small earthenware coffee cups.

"This is sacrilege, I hope you realise," he says even as he pours the perfectly warmed sake into Jesse's cup.

Jesse grins. "You can let it slide this once, though, right darlin'?"

Hanzo hums as he pours for himself. "Only because it is the company that enhances a drink, not the vessel from which you imbibe."

Jesse blushes faintly again.

“Tell you what,” Jesse says, halfway through his cake slice, “this here's a far cry better than last year's holidays. This time last year I was getting' blind drunk in a shitty bar by myself. Can't tell how much better it feels to be here, sharing with a friend instead.”

“Another matter we agree on.” 

“Damn right. We should toast on it.” Jesse picks up his cup. “What do you say – kanpai?” 

“Mn, kanpai.” Hanzo bumps his cup against Jesse's. “Cheers.” 

"Cheers!"

Jesse's throat bobs as he swallows. He sets down his cup and licks the sheen of sake from his lip. "In all seriousness, though, I'm real glad to be doin' this with you." 

Hanzo takes another long stop of his own drink. "Jesse, I am curious," he starts, halting. “A meal like this, on Christmas Eve in Japan... do you realise what it means?” 

Jesse hesitates a moment before he ventures, “It's somethin' friends do, right? Close friends.” 

“...Yes.” Hanzo's throat is dry.

“I did hear there could be more to it than that, though.” 

Jesse's fork is clenched in a white-knuckled grip. 

_Enough of this_ , Hanzo thinks.

“Jesse," he says quietly, "the night of the party, what did I say to you?” 

Jesse grimaces. "We're doin' this now, huh? Alright." He swallows and ducks his head, and takes a deep breath. 

“You said I was a good man. That I deserved to be happy. To have someone who would treat me right, take care o' me.” His voice cracks. “Kinda soppy, to be honest, but you were ten sheets to the wind, so.” He gives Hanzo a half smile that wobbles, precarious. “But there you were, lookin' up at me with those dark, gorgeous eyes o' yours, and... and you held my hand when I was tryin' to get you to lie down, and you wouldn't let go. And then you said that all that stuff, and I knew you meant it. And I almost gave in and kissed you right there.” 

He sets down his fork and covers his mouth with his hand. 

“And then I promptly went and freaked out, and messed it all up. There I'd been mopin' about how I kept losin' folks, how I hated the holidays 'cause I had nothin' and no one and I was always gonna end up alone, and then outta nowhere you go and offer me a goddamn dream? It was... it was a lot to deal with. Too much. ...And then you were drunk, and I started worryin' about that – whether you really knew what you were sayin', you know – and then you sent that text tellin' me you didn't remember any of it, and...”

“And twisted your emotions further.”

“Naw, it wasn't you, Hanzo. I was tyin' myself in knots. I wanted to tell you the truth, but – well, a damn coward is what I was. And the longer I went without sayin' anything the harder it got to start. Hence the mess.” 

Hanzo cannot take it anymore. He reaches over the table and takes up Jesse's hand in both of his. 

“Jesse, hush. You did not mess it all up.” 

Jesse wrinkles his nose, dubious. "Sweet of you to say but I kinda did." 

“No. Not to the point of ruin; far from it.” 

“I still upset you. I'm real sorry, sweetheart.” 

“I know you are." Hanzo grips Jesse's fingers tighter. "And I have already told you I forgive you.”

Jesse chews on his lips, brow furrowed, his eyes bright and focused intently on Hanzo like an avalanche of words is building up inside him, pressing at the backs of his teeth. 

He twines their fingers together. The pressure bursts. 

“I know we don't got any mistletoe but, god, Hanzo, I really want to kiss you,” he rasps. 

And Hanzo reaches up, pulls him down by the scruff of his cheeks, and grants them both their wish. 

* * *

Jesse 

25th Dec 2077

02:17

You just nodded off. You're curled up against me as I type this, got my free arm wrapped round you 

02:18

You're gorgeous when you're sleepin

02:18

Is that creepy to say? Well, it's true. I must be the luckiest sonnuva gun in the whole damn world 

02:20

Didn't want to wake you, I just needed you to know 

02:21

Sweet dreams, Hanzo. Merry christmas. I'll see you in the morning 

02:23

❤️

**Author's Note:**

> my method for finding fic ideas: throw a dart at a board filled with random words. What will Hanzo be angsty and introspective about this time? Fast food? Excellent!  
> Thanks for coming to my self roast, I am nothing if not predictable
> 
> I'll format the texts properly when I have time and access to my computer... maybe. if I remember
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading, I hope you're having a good end to the decade, wherever you are and whatever you're doing xx


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